Three
by HolmesWoman
Summary: A familiar scent has Holmes believing a certain thief is back in London. When they meet there's always challenge, heat and a battle of wits. Twice she's bested him at his own game, but now he wants to come out on top. Other version, original is M-rated


**AN: Hi! This is my triple first: first text in English bigger than 1000 words, first fanfic, and first attempt at smut. I've read nearly all of Holmes' adventures and novels, but refused to apply this work to the 'Books' section because it's based on RDJ's and Rachel McAdams' brilliant Holmes and Adler, ergo, it relates to the 2009 movie directed by Guy Ritchie. It's set after the movie and obviously contains spoilers. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and given that English isn't my native language, please be nice! R & R!**

_**Three**_

He did miss her. Especially in those particularly painful times when he had no case. Stagnation was simply unbearable. The thought of her saved his mind from such dark moments, but then he plunged deeper into them, because he did miss her; because they could not live with each other, but to live apart was just as hard.

Tonight, however, pushing her away from his musings proved ever harder than usual. Watson had dropped by earlier in the evening and had dragged him out for a walk, asserting that some light and fresh air would do his pouting friend good. Holmes was not certain where had the doctor had found any light, but the autumn air was not only fresh, but exceedingly chilly.

It was when his friend was talking about some recent medical case of his, just as they were walking by a group of finely dressed men and women that he caught the scent. That damned Parisian perfume, a mist of jasmine, orange blossom and something he could not place. As the deep, rich smell filled his nostrils, he stopped dead on his tracks and turned around, but she was nowhere in sight.

Now, buried in an armchair near the fire, pipe lit on his lips, no lights on, and no sounds except for the cracking of the flames, he brought himself to the conclusion that she was back in London. It was only logical; famous gems were in town for an exposition, so she would have been drawn like a magnet to the city.

The next morning he got up early, swallowed something for breakfast (only because he knew that if he did not, Mrs Hudson would have whined and complained about his "complete disregard for his physical integrity" for the rest of the week - or as she usually said, "to put it shortly, you are killing yourself") and headed out. The British Museum was crowded for a week day, but the room with the special exhibition was the only one that held more people than it was designed to. He approached one of the glass cases to read the gem's specifications when, coming from his left, he felt it again.

A very distinguished young gentleman was looking at the same jewel as Holmes was, and, later he realized, not only the perfume, but the glint in the eyes gave it away.

"You won't get it," he stated. The man looked puzzled. "The gems, Ms Adler," he murmured intently as he turned to face the young gentleman. "You can't get them. None of them. And this one in particular," he indicated the flawless emerald with a quick glance to his right before his eyes shot back to meet those in front of him.

"I do not know what you are talking about," the man stuttered in a low baffled voice beneath his moustache and seeming offended, he walked away. Holmes smiled to himself and took one last look about him before strolling back home.

It was on the evening paper that he read about one of the gems in the exposition having been stolen - and a particularly valuable one, a flawless 18-carat emerald. The museum was desperate for any information leading to the criminal or the object in question. Holmes 'thought' he had some data upon the subject which could prove quite valuable if shared, but he surely did not intend on making it public.

The museum curator called in and tried convincing him in a friendly walk the following afternoon to help them to at least to find the jewel, since Scotland Yard was having an exceptionally hard time with the case. After finding out everything the others knew about the theft – nothing at all that could lead someone unfamiliar to thief's methods to the person he knew perfectly well to be guilty of such a well-staged crime -, without even a glance to the trees and the kids playing around him in the park, Holmes let the conversation drift into countless unfortunate attempts at robbery in the museum while it had been under the care of the gentleman beside him, none of which were worthy of the private detective's interest.

The sun was setting - and making quite a spectacle out of it - as Holmes was left by himself sitting on an old park bench, seeing as the curator had business to attend to and could linger no longer. The sky was a mixture of deep orange and rich pinkish hues that warmed the atmosphere, and fallen leaves all around seemed to reflect those heavenly colours on the grass, on the trees, on the wind. He had been glancing at his pocket watch when that familiar scent hit him. He felt cold hands close over his eyes and the smell was suddenly too close.

"Were you waiting for me?" Her voice came hardly over a whisper. He tucked his watch back into his pocket before questioning in response.

"Are your hands cold from the weather – and if so, where are your gloves? – or are they so because you've been too recently manipulating a stolen gem, Ms Adler?"

Her lips brushed his ear as she stated "You always take the fun out of everything, don't you?" removing her hands from his face.

"_Au contraire_, my darling. I sustain that you are the one who brings negative things along with you, proceeding by afterwards, leaving a trail of chaos and destruction behind."

"That hurt," she said while gracefully sitting beside him, her smile showing she felt the exact opposite. She wore a jade green gown with a bonnet slightly darker and both accented her eyes and lips. He could not help noticing, the dress was straight and a little low cut at the chest, just so that his attention was caught.

"So, how did you know it was me?" she asked sweetly staring at the sky.

"Why are you back? I have another few pointless questions for you, if you are going to start with some yourself," he countered.

"Did you miss me?" she inquired, cocking her head to the side.

"Do you think?"

"Am I not asking?"

"Did _you_ miss _me_?" He cocked his head to the side.

"Do you ever answer questions?" she asked staring into his eyes;

"Do _you_?" he stared back.

With them, it was always the battle of wits. Always the challenging, just like he did to her in the museum, even though he had tried hard not to. He could not restrain himself, _those eyes under those thick fake eyebrows were challenging him only by being there!_, he had to do something. All those months ago she had tricked him into chasing her down in the sewers just to clear the way for Professor Moriarty, so that he could get whatever he wanted from Lord Blackwood's remote controlled machine. And now, she came out on top. Again. The news resting on the armchair next to the fire at his sitting room proved that. His male pride was hurt. Not his detective pride, his man pride. He did not care for taking her to the police; they were both on a much higher level than that. He wanted her to acknowledge his intelligence as superior to hers, and yet she would never be as enticing and alluring if she did. He needed her to acknowledge that he'd bested her in some other aspect.

Irene Adler had missed the nit-picking, the challenging, the greatness of their conversations... The stubble on his face rough on her cheeks, his warm hands on her skin… That last kiss lingering in her memory like something she just could not reach in the distance. But she knew how to conceal the urgency inside her.

"Tea, Ms Adler?" Holmes invited, eyebrows raised.

"Why not 'Irene'?" she sighed and leaned in closer to him, smiling softly, eyes still on his.

"Still not answering questions?" he whispered, and not realizing, leaning into her himself. Her smile broadened at his last words and gesture. He had to hold back a growing warmth in his chest by looking away from her, something setting his heartbeat to a quicker pace, increasing along with her smile, and _oh_, how he wished that her hands, the ones resting on her thighs, were actually his. One of hers reached for his head, and as she ran it along the sides, on his hair, his hat fell to the ground with a silent thud.

"I've always liked your hair," she stated.

He turned back to her.

"Yours is as beautiful as it's always been," the words blurted out of his mouth before he could stop them. Then, her eyes dropped to his lips and she did the unthinkable. She touched her lips to his, barely applying any pressure. As soon as his lips moved, her nails grazed his scalp, all her want pouring desperately out. _That bloody woman_, he thought, one of his hands on her waist, bringing her closer, the other, entangled in her hair.

The kiss was broken when they parted for air, and only centimetres away, Irene breathed upon his lips.

"Oh, Sherlock..."

And he was on her again, hating himself and her when their lips parted instinctively and their tongues started duelling. Then, he remembered where they were, and forced their bodies apart, holding her at arm's length, as he tried to regain composure, but failing remarkably for the fact that he was panting.

"Irene," he started and she moaned very lightly upon hearing her first name from his lips. "This is getting out of control, and I do not _ever _lose control."

Her heavily lidded eyes had a glassy coat to them; much like her cheeks, her chest was flushed and rising and falling with the effort to catch her breath; her mouth slightly open and her hair ruffled. She did not even notice that there was scarcely anyone else in the park. He inhaled deeply, trying not to think of the fact that she looked like she did right now because of _him._

Then it all happened at once. His male pride climbed high with the realization of what he was capable of doing to her, but it faltered a bit when a tingle went up his spine just because one of her hands came to rest of his chest so that she could whisper the painful truth into his ear.

"Oh, we've been out of control for a long time now..."

And that was it; feeling her hot breath in his ear, her hands on his chest - _he almost shivered, for God's sake! -,_one of his own darted out to rest on her thigh, caressing it up and down to her knee, as she started trailing kisses from the back of his ear to his neck, pausing to nibble on his earlobe, his musky scent filling her nostrils, making her dizzy.

It took a lot of his willpower not to take her there and then when she suggested they left, but to get up and almost forcefully drag her with a firm grasp on her hip to the street, where he got them a hansom.

After boarding it, arriving at 221B Baker Street, and being pinned up against the door in Holmes' lodgings, Irene could not help but tease him.

"So, tea, huh?" she managed between lips, tongues, hands and breaths. "That was the best you could come up with to get me to come home with you?"

"Irene," he growled in response, "I do not work on lines, my darling, and you seem-"

At this point she gasped, because the tips of his strong violinist's fingers wandered wonderfully over her neck and shoulders.

"To agree-"

She could feel his smirk against her ear.

"That I do not need to."

They practically ran up the stairs and he kicked open the door to closest room and slammed it behind them, relieved to find a bed there on which to drop her. Just as he was about to follow, a knock came upon the door.

"Doctor? Is everything alright?"

Holmes then looked around and noticing the neatness of the room, realized he was in Watson's bedroom.

"It's not Dr Watson, Mrs Hudson, it's me!"

"Mr Holmes?" questioned the landlady's voice.

Irene was eager, beckoning him to the bed, waving her hands, but he raised his own in a silent signal for her to wait.

"What is going on, Mr Holmes? I just came from collecting a dress and bonnet downs-"

The door suddenly opened from the inside just enough for Mrs Hudson to see a strange young woman's face come to tell her that 'Mr Holmes' was busy. After slamming the door shut, Ms Adler got rid of her bodice, and Holmes, his back to her, simply stated "I cannot believe you just did that. That was my landlady."

"I know" she said. But neither gave much further thought because the electricity in the room was building exponentially. This time _he _would come out on top. Literally.

Afterward, as they lay panting, trying to regain their breath, he rolled off of her and could not refrain from teasing her.

"See? I told you I did not need lines."

He'd won.

She smiled.

"It's okay," she said calmly. "I've still got three points over you."

He was confused, but decided to play along.

"Three?" he panted indignantly. "How come? Well, if you're counting the gem - which you got because _I_ instigated you -, since Blackwood and the sewers, that makes two. And _this-,_" he indicated the tangled sheets around them, "is at least one score for me."

"Alright, conceded. But if that's a score for you, it's one for me too, because, admit it or not, you're _very_ good at it, but so am I."

She emphasized her words with a breath-taking kiss to his lips, to which they both moaned.

"And of course I am counting my wonderfully executed theft of the emerald, but, honey, that does not make two. Remember all those years ago?"

Her chest rose and fell with her heavy breathing.

"When your dear friend published how much you admired me, right after I slipped through your fingers and you were left with only a photograph - and not the one you were asked to retrieve? Well, darling, that's when I scored one."

When she mentioned Watson right before falling asleep, Irene reminded him that they were on his friend and fellow lodger's bed.

It would only be in the morning that he would recall his hat, fallen over hair compliments to rest beside the autumn leaves on the grass in Hyde Park, near an old bench.

It would also be in the morning that Mrs Hudson would leave the clothes that were scattered all over the house all tidy on the armchair near the fire in the sitting room. On top of them, she would place a beautiful flawless 18-carat emerald she'd found by the girl's dress. She would be marvelled at its beauty and apparent value, but the landlady would never know how much that gem really meant to those two stubborn lovers asleep in the doctor's bedroom.

**THE END**

**AN: Soooo? Please review! I'm crazy to hear what you guys think, and thank you so much for your encouraging and constructive reviews on my first fanfiction ever! This is fun; I think I'll start writing more often. Thanks again for reading!**

**AN2 (18/12/2011): It's now revised by lazy me! I know, took me a long bloody time, but alas. Btw, to those of you wondering, the photograph incident is depicted in Arthur Conan Doyle's "A Scandal in Bohemia", Sherlock Holmes' first published adventure. If there is still something wrong with it, go ahead and tell me, ok?**

**- HolmesWoman**


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